Hope Springs
by Sigma Creations
Summary: When Ruth had left for the second time to return to Cyprus with the boy, continuing had seemed almost impossible for Harry. He'd managed to survive the last five years through sheer strength of will. Now, however, his self-neglect has caught up with him and he's been forced to take leave. Will a chance encounter on holiday bring him the peace and hope he so desperately needs?
1. Chapter 1

_May 2013, Corsica_

Harry stands under the tree facing the sea in the early morning light and takes deep lungfuls of air. This is exactly what he needs, he thinks and makes a mental note to find some way of thanking Malcolm for bringing him here. Even _he_ didn't realized how close to breaking point he'd been just a month ago.

It had all started when Ruth had left. He hadn't realized it at the time, but when she'd got on that tugboat, on that cold, spring morning, part of him had shut down. He'd lost his balance, his ability to carry on the good fight without loosing himself in the process. He still isn't sure why this is the case, how one person had suddenly become so important for his well being, his sanity. Perhaps it's because she made him care in a more immediate, concrete way than he had before. She'd been the one who had taken his abstract, intellectual morality and made it all real and applied in their day to day operations and his daily decisions. Once she'd left, however, there was no one to fill that role, no one to keep him on the straight and narrow. And so he'd made some terrible decisions that had resulted in loss of innocent lives, but he was no longer able to justify these to himself as he had done in the past, because every night, he would picture Ruth frowning in disapproval at him for the mess he'd made.

And then suddenly she'd been dragged back into his life because of Baghdad and the Uranium, and every day since, he'd berated himself for his decision to bring her in on that operation. It was a decision that had cost them both so dearly in the end. She'd lost her husband and her peace of mind, her simple, elegant life away from MI-5, from the danger, the death, and the destruction, and from him, and he'd lost her all over again, this time for good. And most devastatingly of all, when she'd left to take the boy back home, there was no tender kiss, no kind words, no lingering looks full of unspoken love. There was just an angry glare and a curt, sarcastic, "Yes, well, you know, thanks for that; thanks for trying."

After that, continuing had been almost impossible for him, and had he known what else to do with himself, he would have seriously considered resigning. But there was nothing else for him. He was and is the man on the wall, and he believes that he always will be. He has already decided that he will probably die doing this job. It is his calling, his destiny. He has never wanted to do anything else, though many times he's wished that he did.

Still, he needs this break. Without it he knows that he most likely would have been kicked out already. He'd been sleeping and eating less and less frequently over the last few years and drinking more than is healthy, and lately, his self neglect had caught up with him and his performance at work had finally began to suffer. He's been lucky that both the DG and Home Secretary value him highly, and they don't want to see him go. Erin had been the one to press him to take time off, and he's sure now that he managed to ask for it just in time, before the DG resorted to giving him compulsory leave of absence, or worse, sending him to TRING.

Here at least he's been sleeping, though admittedly very badly. He's been having that dream again. The dream that is half real, half fiction, based on his last encounter with Ruth.

He sighs heavily and sits down with his back to the tree, looking out over the open water. Malcolm said something about going out fishing this morning, he thinks absently, but his mind will not be distracted, and closing his eyes with another heavy sigh, he leans back against the trunk and remembers.

_She was angry. Really angry and he couldn't blame her. She'd come here for protection, and instead, she'd been thrown back into a world she'd thought she'd left behind forever, and lost her husband. And to make matters worse, he'd been the instrument through which she'd been hurt yet again, and it pained him more than he would ever admit or be able to express. _

_He loved her still. Totally and completely, and in that moment when they'd brought her before him in the warehouse, when he'd looked into her eyes again, he knew that he would never stop loving her. Even when he'd learned that she had moved on, that she belonged to another, he knew that he was powerless to stop. He'd felt a jealousy so strong that it had left him momentarily unable to breath. "Do you love him?" he'd asked. "He doesn't deserve to be in danger, and I'm not going to start discussing my feelings about him... not with you," she'd answered, twisting the knife and tearing his heart to pieces. _

_He glanced down at her as they walked side by side now through London. Once she had looked at him with love, now she looked at him with anger, and sometimes, he thought, with hate. He would give almost anything to change that. If only he hadn't taken her to Baghdad, if only his feelings for her had not been so strong, if only he could forget... _

"_The boy, your..." he tailed off, unable to bring himself to say it._

"_Nico," she responded angrily._

"_Yes," he replied in a low voice._

"_I'm taking him home tomorrow," she answered._

"_Right," he murmured._

"_You would have let him die," she accused, suddenly turning her angry, blue eyes to glare at him._

_He looked away to hide the pain before replying, "I'm not asking for forgiveness, Ruth."_

"_What are you asking for then?" she demanded._

"_I came to tell you that I will sort something out for you," he murmured. _

"_Sort something out," she replied sarcastically, almost rolling her eyes at him in disgust._

_Disgust, he thought and felt another stab of pain. He'd hoped to never see her look at him like that. He could bear it from everyone else, but from her? Never from her, not from Ruth._

"_Financially. Some form of compensation," he murmured quietly._

"_Compensation!" she exclaimed her eyes looking daggers at him. "God, Harry. Do you listen to yourself?"_

"_Ruth, I'm trying," he pleaded. "I'm trying... with all my limitations, which you know better than anyone."_

"_Yes, well, you know," she said in a sarcastic voice, "thanks for that. Thanks for trying."_

_And then she was gone, turning her back on him and walking away, and he knew that he would never see her again. And he also knew that these last few hours would haunt him for the rest of his days._

His eyelids fly open and he scrambles to his feet, breathing hard and wiping swiftly at his eyes with his thumb and fingers, knowing from experience that he will find tears spilling from them. No matter how many years pass, her words and the look in her eyes are still fresh in his mind. He takes a couple of deep breaths and reaches into his pocket, bringing out a plastic envelope sealed around a piece of card. It's a postcard that he always carries with him for moments such as this, when the memories overwhelm him. He holds it gently in his hands and looks at the picture, a donkey wearing a straw hat and almost nuzzling the camera as it stands on a sandy beach. He smiles softly and slowly turns it over, looking at the familiar handwriting with a mixture of pain and pleasure. "Dear, H," he reads though he has memorised it long ago. "Please forgive me. Actus non facit reum nisi mens sit rea. I was wrong to blame you. I know what it must have cost you to do what you did, and I admire you for it. Thinking of you fondly, always. Stubborn Mule x"

His finger traces over the single kiss and he murmurs softly, "Oh, Ruth," her name a gentle caress, a quiet plea falling from his lips.


	2. Chapter 2

_Later that morning, Corsica_

They've been here for two weeks and he can already see the change in Harry. The long solitary walks along the beach or up into the hills have restored his flagging spirits somewhat, as has the quiet companionship they've shared. It's been interesting, though a little difficult at times as one would expect when two confirmed bachelors share a living space. But overall it's been good for them both, he thinks with a smile.

When he'd picked up Harry at his house on the way to the airport, he'd hardly recognised him he'd looked so awful. He'd lost too much weight, there were huge, dark bags under his eyes, his skin had lost all its colour, but worst of all had been the lifeless look in his eyes. Erin had been right; they were probably just in time to save him from self-destruction. "Hello, Harry," he'd said. "You look like hell." That comment had got a reaction out of him and he'd smiled briefly, the twinkle in his eye returning if only for a split second as he replied drily, "Lately, I've been living in it." It had relieved Malcolm no end as he'd feared that it might already be too late for his friend.

He glances over at his companion now, who is lying down with his hat over his face, enjoying the gentle swaying of the boat and the sunshine on his bare chest, legs, and arms. He looks much better now. The colour has returned to his skin, he looks like he's getting more sleep, and he's filled out a little now that he's eating regularly and drinking much less alcohol. All the walking and swimming he's been doing have also improved his muscle tone, and he looks in pretty good shape considering he'll turn sixty this year.

The first time he'd taken his shirt off to bathe, Malcolm had almost gasped at the sheer number of scars Harry carried on his body. Most of them were very faint and had healed well, but there were a couple that looked like angry, red marks. Noticing his expression, Harry had said with a wry smile, "Twenty three. Just in case you were wondering." To which he had replied, "I don't know how you do it to yourself, Harry." Harry of course had laughed and said, "I don't, Malcolm. This is what other's have done to me." Then he'd turned serious and added, "It's a small price to pay for the safety of millions. Others have not been so lucky." His words had brought to mind Colin and young Zaf, and he'd felt the pain of their loss and suffering anew. He'd been pulled out of his melancholy thoughts quickly, however, by Harry, who perhaps noticing his sudden shift in mood, had added lightly as he'd turned toward the sea, "It _is_ advisable, however, to keep the lights off when rolling in the hay."

"Penny for them," Harry murmurs as he stretches and sits up, cutting into his reverie.

"I haven't been entirely honest with you, Harry," he replies as he turns his attention back to recasting his line.

"You surprise me, Malcolm," Harry says and gets up, moving to reel in his own fishing line.

"This place," Malcolm continues quietly, "and this boat don't belong to a friend. They belong to me."

"Mmmm," Harry hums. "And you didn't tell me this because?"

"I don't like to advertise it," Malcolm answers after a moment's hesitation.

"Why?" Harry smiles. "What did you do? Rob a bank? Sell you brilliant mind and stunning computer skills to terrorists?"

"No!" Malcolm exclaims before he belatedly realizes that Harry's teasing. "I write books. Mysteries," he admits with a blush.

"You must be good, Malcolm, to be able to afford all this," Harry says after taking a moment to cast his line into the calm sea. "Have I read any of your books? What's your pen name? I assume you use one."

"I don't know," he admits, pleased that Harry has taken it so well and isn't making fun of him, "if you've ready any of my books, that is. I have a couple of pseudonyms: Mallory Fortuna and Alexander Jones."

"No," Harry sighs, "I can't say that I have, but as I've had little time or inclination to read lately, it's hardly surprising. I've been meaning to ask you if you have any books lying around that I could borrow, so perhaps it could be one of yours?"

"Of course," he murmurs a little hesitantly and isn't surprised when Harry turns his head sharply to look at him. The apprehension in his voice has been all too obvious.

"If you'd rather I didn't, just say the word, Malcolm," he murmurs.

"It's not that," he replies quickly. "I'd be honoured if you read my books, Harry. It's just that..." He tails off, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks and trying desperately to control it and find a way to explain.

Harry looks at him shrewdly for a moment and then smiles. "You've based one of the characters on me, haven't you?"

"Yes," he sighs in relief.

"I'm flattered, Malcolm," Harry chuckles. "And don't worry, I promise not to be offended. I do understand that it's a work of fiction. Don't tell me who it is though. I'd like to work it out for myself."


	3. Chapter 3

The book is surprisingly good, he thinks as he lies back in the hammock reading. In fact, it's bloody brilliant, a wonderful mixture of comedy and drama twisted together into a robbery/murder mystery. "Nursery Rhyme Mysteries: Sing a Song of Sixpence," is the title of the book he's reading, the first, Malcolm said, in this series. He's already written four, he'd explained, and has outlined a fifth, planning to begin writing soon.

There are a few characters that Harry recognises, most notably himself, the detective, Albert Alexander, and his side kick, the charming Anthony Clarke, clearly Adam. Then there is the tall, slender forensics scientist who is quite obviously Colin Wells, and Anthony's wife, Phoebe Clarke, without a doubt Fiona Carter. Other than that, in this story, there's a young woman who reminds him of Jo, and then Johnny Marks, a man he's not likely to forget and who, in this novel, appears to be cast as the nemesis of the detective.

He's already half way through the novel and is intrigued by the plot, an ingenious robbery and murder involving uncut diamonds cleverly concealed inside a pie, and of course some unexpected twists and turns in the story, as well as some interesting revelations about the main characters and their back stories. The detective, for instance, is relentless in his pursuit of criminals, and he's prepared to occasionally bend the law in order to capture them, if he's convinced of their guilt, because of a traumatic event in his past which has yet to be revealed, and Harry can't help thinking that it's going to be the loss of the woman he loves because he failed to act in time to protect her. Knowing that this character is very obviously based on himself, though there are some very important differences, he still can't make up his mind if he's happy that the fictional Harry is as miserable as the real one, or if he would prefer at least one of them to be happily married to the love of his life.

"Hello," says a melodious voice, interrupting his musings and causing him to look up sharply.

"Hi," he replies as his eyes fall on a woman in her late forties with long chestnut hair and the most brilliant, green eyes he's ever seen. Slowly he rises from the hammock as she approaches, feeling the familiar stirring in the pit of his belly at the sight of this beautiful woman. It's been a while since the last time he's felt it, and it takes him a little by surprise. It's gone almost instantaneously, however, as the memory of another woman rises to the forefront of his mind, and suddenly her brilliant, green eyes aren't blue enough and her chestnut hair too long and straight.

"I'm Jean," she smiles and extends her hand.

"Harry," he replies as he shakes it, unconsciously comparing her touch to that of another and finding it wanting.

"Is Malcolm here?" she asks.

"He's just gone out," Harry replies, wondering who this woman is and how she knows his friend.

"Oh, well," she answers. "Would you tell him I called round? Tell him I've just arrived and that I'm expecting him."

"Of course," Harry replies. "Would you like to wait for him? I don't think he'll be long now."

"No," she shakes her head. "I need to unpack, and besides, I have guests." She glances down and spies the book he's holding. "Are you enjoying his book?"

"Yes, very much," Harry smiles.

"He's a good writer," she nods. "How do you know him?"

"We worked together for many years," he volunteers, surprising himself with his honesty.

She steps back a little and eyes him critically before smiling and saying, "You're Albert Alexander."

"Is it that obvious?" he chuckles.

"Only to a fellow novelist," she laughs. "We tend to base our fictional characters on people we know well."

"Do you also write mysteries?" Harry asks, intrigued.

"No," she replies. "Romance. And if we get to know each other well enough, Harry. I might base my next hero on you."

"Oh, I don't know, Jean," he smiles. "I think I'd be better suited to the role of a villain."

"We'll see," she replies and waves as she walks back round the corner of the house and out of sight.

He stands there for some moments still smiling as he thinks over their exchange. It's been a while since any woman has talked to him, let alone flirted with him and it feels good. Perhaps all is not lost after all.


	4. Chapter 4

"Jean," he calls, pulling the car to the edge of the dirt track and getting out. "How are you? It's lovely to see you."

"Hello, Malcolm," she smiles and embraces him. "I've just been to call on you. I met Harry. You didn't tell me you'd be bringing company."

"It was a last minute arrangement," he explains apologetically. "He needed a little break from work so I invited him here, and I knew that if I told you, you'd pounce on him and he'd never get the break I promised."

"Is that any way to describe a friend, Malcolm?" she replies in mock offence. "Me? Pounce?"

"You know I mean it in the nicest way possible, Jean," he says with a blush, feeling uncomfortable despite the fact that he knows she's only teasing. "He needed time to himself, and would have resented your interference, however well meant."

"Well," she smiles, "I promise to behave myself and leave the man in peace. Besides I have a guest of my own so it shouldn't be too difficult. She's a librarian that I met on one of my book tours a couple of years ago now. She's very knowledgeable and great fun, and we've become good friends. Anyway, I've invited her here to stay with her stepson. You'll like her. Hang on, there he is now."

Malcolm turns and sees a tall, dark haired boy coming toward them on a bicycle. As he moves nearer and he can make out his face more clearly, it strikes Malcolm that he knows this child, but he can't for the life of him remember from where. The boy skids to a halt a couple of meters away and jumps off the bike, saying, "Hello, Ms. Thomas. I'm just riding down to the beach."

"Yes, of course, Nico," Jean smiles and turns to Malcolm to introduce him. As soon as she sees his face, however, she exclaims, "Malcolm, are you okay?"

"What?" he says, recovering with difficulty from the shock of seeing Ruth's step son again. "Fine, I'm fine. It's just that Nico and I are old friends."

"You're the man with the story about the dog!" Nico exclaims, and lowering his bike to the ground, he comes forward. "You saved my life."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Malcolm blushes.

"You did," he insists. "Ruth said so, and I remember the man with the gun. I didn't know what was going on at the time, but Ruth's explained it since. Thank you, Sir."

"Malcolm, please," he smiles. "How is Ruth?" he asks before he suddenly remembers Harry and his face blanches.

"She's well," Nico replies without noticing his discomfort. "We're staying at Ms. Thomas's house for the Easter holidays. She'd be very please to see you if you drop by."

"I will, Nico," he smiles, "but don't let us keep you from your swim."

Nico grins and gets back on his bike, disappearing swiftly down the dirt track toward the beach as he calls out a goodbye. As soon as he's gone, Malcolm turns to Jean quickly and asks urgently, "Is it just the two of them at your house?"

"Yes," she frowns. "Why?"

He hesitates for a moment, but as his thoughts turn toward his friend back at the house, he forces himself to go on. "Is Ruth... _with_ someone?"

"No," Jean replies. "She's just broken up with her boyfriend. It's part of the reason I asked her to visit. Why?"

Malcolm sighs in relief and smiles slightly. Perhaps this is what they both need.

"You and she..." Jean begins but tails off.

Malcolm turns toward her, and seeing the pain in her eyes, he blushes and shakes his head emphatically, saying, "No. It's Ruth and Harry... We used to work together, Ruth, Harry, and I. Ruth and Harry fell in love, and when Ruth left... Harry slowly fell to pieces. He's never recovered from her loss really, and I just wanted to make sure that, if they bump into each other-"

"He won't be hurt further by the appearance of another man," she finishes for him with a smile.

Malcolm nods and a silence descends over them for a few moments until it's broken by Jean, saying, "You know, we _could_ play Cupid, Malcolm."

"Oh, no, Jean," he objects. "Not with those two. Trust me, complicated doesn't even begin to describe it. I'll just tell each of them where the other is and they can sort it out on their own."

"You know them best," Jean agrees. "Come home with me now."

"Thank you," he nods. "I will." He turns toward the car, blushing at the images her words bring to the forefront of his mind. He's well aware of the attraction he feels for Jean and is pretty confident now, after knowing her for three years, that she's also interested in him in a capacity other than friendship. However, he has very little confidence in his abilities in this area, so he shies away from making any kind of advances toward her. He opens the car door for her and watches her jump in. She's so energetic and confident; how would he ever keep up?

"Thank you, Malcolm," she smiles as she gets in his car.

He nods and closes the door for her before walking round the vehicle and getting in. Then he turns around and drives back to Jean's place. He parks the car and follows her into the house as she calls out, "Ruth, where are you? I have a surprise for you."

Moments later, Ruth appears from outside saying, "Jean, this place is spectacular. I've never..." She tails off as she spots Malcolm standing by Jean's side with a warm smile on his face. "Malcolm," she whispers in amazement before she smiles broadly and rushes up to embrace him. "Oh, Malcolm. It's so wonderful to see you."

"Hello, Ruth," he murmurs. "I never thought I'd see you again."

"Neither did I," she replies as she pulls back and wipes at her eyes quickly, brushing away the tears that have gathered there. "How are you? What are you doing here?"

"Malcolm's my neighbour," Jean smiles, "and a fellow author."

"Really?" she replies. "What kind of books? What's your latest one called?"

"Jack and Jill," Jean answers quickly.

"Oh, you're Mallory Fortuna!" Ruth exclaims. "I _love_ your books. They're hilarious. And your pen name, Malcolm! Unlucky fortune! You know I've always wanted to meet you. I never guessed that it was you! And you write the characters so intricately. They're really well developed."

Malcolm blushes at her enthusiasm and praise, while Jean rolls her eyes in mock irritation and excuses herself to get them all some lemonade.

"I can feel my head swelling as you speak, Ruth," he murmurs eventually in an attempt to put a stop to her praise which is embarrassing him.

"Nonsense, Malcolm," she smiles. "You deserve every bit of praise I'm dishing out. You're a wonderful writer. I bet every woman in the world's in love with the detective. I know I am; he's..." She stops herself and her eyes widen in realization as she adds in a whisper, "It's Harry, isn't it? You've based him on Harry."

Malcolm has to clear his throat before he can reply. "Yes," he murmurs as he looks down at his feet.

Ruth is silent for some moments before she asks, "How is he, Malcolm?"

Her words transport him back to another time and place, and he feels a stab of pain at the recollection. "He's surviving," he says eventually. "He almost burnt out a month ago, Ruth, and he had to take leave of absence. I offered him a place to stay for a couple of months. He's here at my place just down the road." He watches her eyes widen in astonishment, and he detects a momentary flicker of pleasure in them before it's replaced by wariness. "He doesn't know you're here yet, but I plan on telling him later. I don't know if it will do him good to see you, Ruth, but I know he'd want to. He... thinks of you often." He isn't normally this forthright and it's costing him a lot to tell her this, but knowing how fragile Harry is right now, he feels the need to protect him as much as possible.

"Has he...?" she asks and stops, unable to finish her question.

"No," he shakes his head. "There's no one else."

"Never?" she murmurs in amazement.

"I believe so," he replies and he can see that it pains her that this is the case. He supposes it must be hard to be loved by a man who has remained so faithful to your memory when you have not been to his. "It's different for him, Ruth. You know that," he adds in an attempt to comfort her. "He works practically twenty-four-seven. How many opportunities did you have to meet someone back in London in our job?"

She nods and smiles gratefully at him as Jean walks back into the room with their drinks. "Let's take these outside, shall we? It's such a lovely day," she says and they both follow her out into the sunshine.


	5. Chapter 5

"Hello," the boy says as he jumps off his bike. "Is this Malcolm's place?"

Harry hesitates momentarily, years of training telling him to deny it, until he remembers that Malcolm's no longer in the service and that he'd explicitly asked him to endeavour to be open and trusting with the people around here. He's on friendly terms with all his neighbours apparently. "Yes," he replies, straightening up and wiping his hands on a rag as he observes the boy closely. He looks to be in his early teens and a happy child, open and trusting.

"Is he home?" he asks next.

"No," he shakes his head. "He's not back yet."

"Oh," he murmurs in disappointment. Then he brightens up and asks, "What are you doing?"

"I'm just changing the oil," he responds, nodding toward the boat's engine.

"Right," he replies. "Want some help?"

"Are you from around here?" he asks, wondering where this boy came from and if someone's looking for him. He was certainly right in his assessment of the lad. He's far too trusting for his own good in his opinion and he wonders at that. He's probably grown up in a village or small town, he concludes, and around people who love him.

"No, I'm visiting Ms. Thomas with my step mum," he volunteers.

"Ms Thomas?" he asks.

"Yes," he replies. "Ms. Jean Thomas. She's an author. She lives just up the road. You can probably see her house from your back garden."

"Ah, yes," he smiles. "I had the pleasure of meeting her earlier today. And does your mother know where you are?" he asks with a frown.

"I'm fourteen, you know," he declares with a hint of annoyance, but seeing that Harry doesn't stop staring at him and waiting for a reply, he adds, "Yeah. She knows I went to the beach. I was just on my way home... only I thought I'd drop in to see Malcolm. He saved my life once, you know."

Harry's heart almost stops at those words, and he swallows hard before he can speak, his voice coming out in a whisper. "What's your name?"

"Nico," he replies. "What's yours?"

"Nico," Harry murmurs and swallows, his throat suddenly dry and his breathing laboured. He turns slowly, and moving over to the low wall on the other side of the drive, he pours himself some water from the jug on the tray there and brings it to his lips, noticing with dismay that his hands are trembling slightly. He takes greedy gulps of the water, draining the glass and pouring himself another. Did Malcolm plan this?

"Are you all right, Sir?" Nico asks and approaches him cautiously.

"Yes," he murmurs after he's drained the second glass and taken a deep steadying breath. With some effort, he pulls himself together before turning to face the boy again and offering, "Would you like some water, Nico?"

"Yes, please," he smiles, and Harry pours him a glass and offers it out to him, pleased that his hands are steady again now. "Thanks," he says and begins to drink.

"Have you been here long, Nico?" Harry asks once he's finished as he takes the glass from the boy's hand.

"No," he smiles. "We arrived at lunchtime. It's Easter break right now, so I don't have school, and Ms. Thomas invited us over here for two weeks. She's always asking us over, but Ruth, that's my step mum, she's always saying no."

"What changed her mind?" Harry asks casually, carefully hiding his investment in the answer.

Nico leans in conspiratorially and whispers, "She doesn't know I know this, but she just broke up with her boyfriend, and I think, that's why she wanted to leave for a bit." He smiles and adds more loudly, "Anyway, I'm not complaining. It's only the second time I've got to visit another country and it's nice here."

"Yes, it is," Harry replies calmly, while inside he's experiencing a roller-coaster of emotions.

"So are you Malcolm's... friend? Partner?" he asks a little hesitantly.

"A friend," he answers, somewhat taken aback by the question. It's not the kind of thing Harry would have thought of, let alone dared to ask an adult, when he was fourteen, and it suddenly makes him feel old and out of touch. Then again, when he was a kid, it hadn't been the kind of thing adults advertised about themselves. Nowadays, probably at least half the kids in the boy's class have more than two parents and gay couples are common. Shaking his head free of these thoughts, he adds, "I'm Harry."

"Ruth has a very good friend called Harry," he frowns. "She worked with him and Malcolm years ago before she met my dad. He died, you know, my dad... I miss him. He was a doctor, you know. I remember we used to play football together. Then one day some terrorists took us away, and they tried to kill us. I was with Dad, but they sent me inside the house and then they shot him. And Malcolm, he came there and stopped them from killing me too. Ruth says that we'd all be dead if her friends, Harry and Malcolm, hadn't stopped them. She says that they tried to protect my dad too, but they couldn't. But she says that they got them all, the people who did it. They're all dead or in prison. I'm glad about that. It's good to know that his death was avenged."

"I'm sorry, Son," Harry says in a husky voice, laced with emotion.

"Are you Ruth's friend Harry?" he asks.

"Yes," he murmurs quietly.

"Thank you for saving Ruth and me," he says earnestly.

"I'm sorry I couldn't save your father too," Harry replies in a choked voice.

He nods and answers, "At least I have Ruth. She's a good mother."

"I have no doubt," he murmurs in agreement. "She's a special person."

They're silent for a little while and Harry struggles to suppress the memories that are threatening to engulf and overwhelm him.

"I want to be a musician when I grow up," Nico volunteers suddenly.

"Really?" Harry smiles, glad of the change in subject.

"Yes," he confirms. "I want to go to a music school, but they don't have any where I live. Thia Maria, my aunt, she says there are some good ones in England, but Ruth says we can't go there again. She says it's too dangerous for her. Do you think it's too dangerous for her, Harry?"

"I think perhaps it is right now, but that it's possible to change that," he murmurs quietly, his mind already working feverishly to find a solution to Ruth's problem with her status in England. Even if she never wants to see him again, he still wants to make it possible for her to come back home to England if she wants to.

They hear a car coming down the road, and moments later, Malcolm appears, parking the car in the driveway and getting swiftly out. Harry notes that he looks a little worried as he approaches and greets Nico.

"Hello again," he smiles at the boy and glances over at Harry apprehensively.

"Hi, Malcolm," Nico replies. "I was coming back from the beach and I stopped to see if you were home."

"That was nice of you," he murmurs. "Did you swim?"

"Yes, I did," the boy replies, "but it was freezing."

"Well, it's only the beginning of May," he states. "It won't warm up for another month." He pauses for a few moments and then asks, "Have you met my friend, Harry?"

"Nico and I have been getting to know each other," Harry replies. "He tells me that he and Ruth will be staying here for two weeks."

"I expect that she'll be wondering where you've got to, Nico," Malcolm says quietly as he turns to the boy. "Perhaps one of these days we can all go out in my boat and do some fishing."

"That would be great," Nico beams and gets back on this bike. "Bye," he calls as he rides away.

Harry and Malcolm call goodbye to him and watch him cycle up the lane. Once he's out of earshot, Malcolm turns to Harry and says, "I'm sorry, Harry. I had no idea that Ruth was coming to stay with Jean. I didn't even know that they were acquainted."

"It's all right, Malcolm," Harry nods. "I'd quite like to see her."

"I thought you might," Malcolm murmurs, "so I invited them round for dinner this evening."


	6. Chapter 6

_Early evening, Corsica_

She dresses for the evening with greater care than she has done in years. Once she's ready, she eyes herself critically in the mirror and is pleased with the results. The long blue dress she's brought with her with matching sapphire earrings and necklace looks perfect on her, she knows. She's put little make up on, knowing that there's a good chance that she'll be moved to tears tonight regardless of the final outcome of her meeting with Harry. So trying not to think about the possibility that things won't go according to plan, she brushes her hair vigorously and as a final touch, she slides the golden hair pin into place. She wishes that she had something that he'd given her to wear, but they have never exchanged anything as personal as jewellery; their relationship had never reached such a stage, she recollects sadly. It's going to though. If Malcolm's right and Harry's still in love with her, she's going to sweep him off his feet tonight.

It's clearly up to her to make it work. After the way she behaved the last time they were together, she's convinced that he won't dare to make any move toward her tonight. She cringes and feels the pain and guilt at the way she'd treated him anew. It was monumentally unfair of her to blame him like that, especially as she'd know that he'd done his best to save them all. She'd taken out her grief, her anger, and most of all her guilt on him. _She_ had pulled George into the murky world of espionage, _she_ had taken him back to England, _she_ had placed him in the hands of the terrorists, _she_ had caved under the pressure and had almost caused the death of them all, not Harry. Harry had done the best he could, and she had thrown it back in his face. Well, tonight and for the next two weeks, she would endeavour to make it up to him.

After one last glance in the mirror and taking a deep steadying breath, she opens her door and goes to find Jean and Nico.


	7. Chapter 7

"They should be here soon," Malcolm murmurs with a quick look at Harry. He has his back toward him so he can't read his expression, but he's sure that his friend is anything but calm and relaxed. Pouring him a glass of wine, he walks over to Harry and holds it out to him, saying, "Go wait outside, Harry. I'll direct Ruth to the garden when they arrive and keep Nico and Jean occupied."

"Thank you, Malcolm," Harry murmurs as he takes the drink from his hand. "You're a good friend."

He blushes slightly and shrugs his shoulders. "Go," he says simply and watches Harry make his way to the terrace and down the steps into the garden. He really hopes that his two friends can work things out this time. He doesn't expect that they'll begin anything, what with Nico in the way and the fact that they live in different countries, not to mention the baggage they both carry and the labyrinthine nature of their relationship, but he's hopeful that they'll be able to resolve things between them enough for them both to be able to move on with their lives.


	8. Chapter 8

He stands outside, leaning on the low garden wall, the soft breeze coming in over the water and caressing his face like a tender lover. He closes his eyes and imagines her fingertips sliding across his skin and her lovely voice murmuring his name. He sighs heavily and shakes his head, bringing himself back out of his fantasy into reality. This isn't helping, Harry, he thinks and makes an effort to compose himself.

It's become more and more difficult over the last few years to exercise his self-control and maintain his cool mask of indifference, and there have been a number of occasions lately on which the cracks in his armour have emerged for all to see. It was one such occasion that had precipitated the events that lead Erin to insist that it was time for him to take some leave. He shudders briefly as he remembers how close he'd come to killing a man in a fit of rage. If Dimitri and Calum hadn't been there, or if Erin had reported it to his superiors... He sighs heavily and resolutely turns his thoughts elsewhere, letting his eyes settle on the moonlight reflecting off the water, taking in the beauty of his surroundings, and as he raises his eyes to the sky, gazing at the stars twinkling in the heavens.

The weather has been unseasonably hot over the last few days. He's wearing just a short sleeved shirt and light trousers, and in his hands he cradles a glass of wine. His mind drifts back to their last encounter and he has to fight hard to control his wondering thoughts. It won't do for him to be upset when she arrives any more that it will do for him to be aroused. He slides his hand into his right pocket and fingers the edges of the postcard, his lifeline in times of need.

"Hello, Harry," her voice breaks into his thoughts, and for a split second, he fears he's imagined it, but when he turns toward the sound, she's standing before him, a vision in blue that takes his breath away. The glass he's holding slips from his fingers and falls to the ground with a dull thud, the contents spilling onto the soft earth, staining it a dark red. Neither of them notice this, however, as they stand a few feet apart, drinking each other in.

"Ruth," he murmurs in a hoarse voice and reaches his hand toward her, but his mind catches up with what he's doing, and he quickly pulls back, letting his hand drop to his side with a soft sigh.

Perhaps she sees the pain in his eyes, because she steps forward and murmurs, "Don't," as she reaches for his hand and takes it in her own, sliding her fingers over it and lifting it up to her face. He watches her in wonder as she presses his palm to her cheek and slides her fingers between his, covering his hand with her own as she pushes it against her damp cheek, her other hand gently encircling his wrist.

She's crying he realizes suddenly, and it spurs him into action. "Don't," he murmurs huskily. "Don't cry, Ruth." But his words seem to make matters worse, and she begins to weep in earnest, sobbing uncontrollably against his hand. "Shhhhh..." he says quietly and pulls her toward him, and to his surprise, she doesn't resist, but allows him to guide her into his arms. Her arms wrap around him, sliding up behind his back and holding him tightly to her as she cries into his shirt. His right hand slips into her hair, cradling her head against his shoulder, and his left arm snakes around her waist. She fits so perfectly against him; he always knew she would even though he's never been allowed to hold her as close as this before. "Don't cry, Ruth," he murmurs again, tilting his head forward, his lips brushing against her forehead as he speaks. "You'll make me think that you're sorry to see me," he adds after a moment in an attempt to lighten the mood.

"No," she exhales in a soft, almost laugh as she struggles to control her sobs. "They're tears of happiness," she adds after a bit, once her breathing has quietened a little. He smiles at that and twists his head round further to look at her. She lifts her head from his shoulder and murmurs, "Sorry, I'm ruining your shirt."

He shrugs slightly as he begins to pull away from her, not sure if holding her close like this is okay now that she's no longer crying. To his surprise, however, she murmurs, "Don't," and tightens her arms around him.

"Ruth?" he whispers uncertainly as he looks down at her luminous eyes. She sniffs a little and he immediately reaches into his pocket and offers her his handkerchief, which she accepts with a soft thank you. Then she releases him for a moment as she dries her eyes and wipes her nose before gathering the handkerchief in her left hand and turning toward him again.

"I've missed you, Harry," she murmurs softly and steps forward, lifting herself onto her toes as she rests her right palm over his heart, pressing her lips against his gently.

He's so surprised by this that he doesn't react even when she repeats her motions a second time. It's only when she begins to pull away, saying, "I'm sorry," that his brain registers what's going on and he jerks himself into action.

"Don't," he says quickly and wraps his arms around her, pulling her against him once more, bringing his mouth down on hers, and kissing her back, softly at first and then more deeply as he feels her respond. What little of his self-control remained in this beautiful setting has blown out to sea, and what began as a gentle kiss, soon progresses into much, much more. Her hands glide over his back sensually as she kisses him ardently, passionately, moaning softly as her left hand runs up and her fingers tangle themselves in his hair. She must be able to feel his arousal now as he pulls her against him with one hand across her lower back and the other behind her neck, his fingers tangling themselves in her silky, chestnut hair, but to his surprise and delight, she doesn't pull back. His mouth traces her jaw line to her neck, and he trails kisses down it to her shoulder as his right hand slides round and cups her breast through the thin material of her dress. She moans his name this time, and it pushes him over the edge; he can't hold back any more. "Tell me to stop, Ruth," he murmurs against her skin. "Tell me to stop because I don't think I can on my own."

"Don't stop, Harry," she sighs. "Don't stop."

"Oh, God, Ruth," he growls and steps to his left, guiding her away from the house and further into the shadows. There's a blanket on the ground here, one he'd used earlier in the day to take a nap under the trees and forgot to put away. He stops by its edge and runs his hands over her sides once more, his lips capturing hers in a fiery kiss. He wants to make love to her, to make her his, to have that exquisite memory to cling to in times of need, a memory that will eclipse all the painful ones he's dwelt on for so long. She wants it too, he can feel it, and yet he suddenly and quite unexpectedly finds that he can't. An overwhelming fear that she wants this for all the wrong reasons, that she's just looking for sex, that she doesn't love him any more, has taken hold in his mind and he cannot continue. He has to be sure that this means as much to her as it does to him.

"I need you to tell me something, Ruth," he murmurs against her neck. "Why me? Why now? Am I just...?" He tails off unable to complete the thought and hating the vulnerability in his voice, but the fear that he's simply her rebound is too much to bear.

He feels her stiffen in his arms, so he pulls away from her slightly so he can see her face. "Are you just what?" she asks in a level voice.


	9. Chapter 9

He swallows and releases her, taking a step back and running his hand over the back of his head as he replies in an agitated voice, "I don't know, Ruth. Nico said that you've just broken up with your boyfriend, and I can't help thinking that it's been so long since we've seen each other, and last time... things between us were..." He sighs heavily and shrugs his shoulders, lifting his palms up helplessly. "And now this happens, and I don't know what to think. I-"

"God, Harry!" she exclaims in a frustrated voice. "What the hell is _wrong_ with you? Every other man I've ever kissed has jumped into bed with me with much less encouragement than _that_! Why do you always have to over-think us? I have loved you for ten years, Harry! Ten fucking years, and I have wanted you for even longer than that. Every other relationship I've had has been a rebound from _you_. And I know I've hurt you, sometimes very deeply, and I regret that more than anything, but how can you doubt that this," she gestured between them with her hand, "between us can be anything other than an expression of love, a deep, passionate love that has survived against all odds? I have thought of you every day for more than a decade, have dreamt of you every night, have missed you desperately, and when I see you after all this time, something I've never believed would happen again, you ask me, why you, why now?" She sighs in exasperation as he watches her quietly, unwilling to interrupt her tirade lest he miss something she says. She's never been this forthright before; neither of them have. She takes a few calming breaths and says quietly, "You know why, Harry. Because I love you and I want you, and because I can. Because you're not my boss any more, because I want a good memory to hold on to forever, because I've always wanted to, but _now_ I can. Self-control and self-denial have no place here, Harry. That's why."

She watches him, her gaze unfathomable as he processes her words and carefully works out what he can say that won't screw this up further. Before he can speak, however, she sighs and murmurs, "You're probably right, Harry. We've changed; both of us have changed, and perhaps we need a little time to reacquaint ourselves with each other... Let's just sit down and talk a little. We could pretend that we're two strangers who've just met on holiday in a warm, romantic place," she adds with a smile and takes a seat on the blanket, looking up at him expectantly.

Nodding slightly, he sits down on her left, and pulling his right knee toward his chest, he links his arms around it, letting his eyes glide over the landscape that's spread out so beautifully before them. The sea glistens in the moonlight and the crickets chirp around them in the trees. It _is_ romantic, he thinks.

"I'm Ruth," she offers after a moment as she turns to look at him. "Jane Ruth Jameson."

"Seriously?" he asks in disbelief as he turns to look at her. "Jane?"

"No," she smiles. "I just wanted to see your face. It's actually Amie, Amie Ruth Jameson."

He chuckles softly and shakes his head before murmuring, "Amie Ruth... Beloved friend. It suits you."

"Thank you...?" she smiles and waits.

"Henry James Pearce at your service," he says, inclining his head gently toward her.

"Henry," she repeats.

"Harry," he corrects. "All my friends call me Harry."

"Harry," she murmurs softly.

He closes his eyes, breathing in deeply, and sighs. "I love the way you say my name, Ruth," he whispers as he opens his eyes and gazes at her adoringly. He watches her watching him for a few moments wondering what she's thinking before he decides to move them on. "So," he murmurs, "what brings you here, Ruth?"

"A holiday," she sighs. "I'm trying to escape."

"Escape?" he asks with a frown of concern, his mind immediately concocting all sorts of scenarios of Ruth in danger.

"Metaphorically speaking," she adds quickly, perhaps sensing his worry. She looks back out toward the sea and frowns unconsciously. Then she murmurs, "I'm not sure I can explain this without..." She tails off and turns to look at him.

"Try," he says quietly. Then after a brief pause he adds, "If it makes you feel any better, I promise to be as forthright as you are when you ask me the same question."

She looks away toward the sea and is silent for so long that he almost gives up hope that she will say anything. After several minutes, however, she begins. "I'm a librarian in a small town in Cyprus, but I haven't always lived there. I used to have a very different life from this, as different as night is from day. I used to live in London and work in a very demanding job that I loved. What I did made a difference, had a huge impact on the everyday lives of so many people, and if I did my job well, they never even realized it. My job was everything to me; it was my whole life... until I started to develop feelings for my boss. He was a powerful, demanding, often harsh, and very stubborn man, but at the same time he was smart, fair, caring, loyal, and sexy as hell." He smiles at her description of him and finds himself enjoying this game they've began.

"My crush on him grew unchecked until soon I found myself head over heels in love with him. He did little to encourage my infatuation at first, but I slowly began to realize that he returned my interest, though I could never understand what drew him to me, his mousy, often clumsy analyst. Soon he began to flirt with me when we were alone on the Grid, and I found myself looking forward to those moments with increasing pleasure. Eventually, he asked me out to dinner, and I jumped at the chance without even pausing to think of the repercussions this would have for both of us at work. The evening was... wonderful and it's something I will never forget, but the next day, I quickly came to realize what I had failed to consider before, that we could not keep our budding romance away from work and that continuing would be undermining his authority and might, in the long run, cost me the job I loved so much... and break my heart. So, reluctantly, I broke it off, but what I failed to take into account was his stubbornness and the strength of the feelings we'd developed for each other. You see, we really couldn't keep our eyes off each other, and I think that, had I not left, I wouldn't have been able to stand strong for long in the face of the hurt, puppy dog looks he kept giving me that were so full of love and longing.

"But I did leave. I had to in order to save him and the millions of people we'd sworn to protect. My life changed dramatically from one day to the next. I left everything behind, my identity, my job, my belongings, my cats, and my heart. In the weeks and months that followed, I thought of him daily and secretly hoped that he would come to find me. Deep down, however, I knew that it could never happen, and after I had found a lovely, warm, sunny place to live, I began to miss my old life less and less. I found a new enjoyment in the quiet, elegant, calm, simple life I had carved out for myself. There was no use in looking back, so I endeavoured to look forward. I swam, I learned to cook, I read, I walked, I drank good wine, I dated, I had sex, I lived.

"Eventually I met someone who was honourable and kind, who was lonely like me, who was good to me, and whom, with time, I came to love, if not with the passion I would always feel for the man I'd left back home, at least with enough strength to commit to him. He wished to marry me and I didn't see any reason not to. He wanted the stability for his son and I agreed. We lived happily, for the most part, for a little over a year before my life fell apart once more. To cut a long story short, he was killed by terrorists who'd taken us all hostage because of an operation I had been involved in while I worked for MI-5. The grief and guilt I felt at the time... is impossible for me to describe. It was because of me that Nico had lost his father, that Maria had lost her brother, and it was something, I admit, I found hard to deal with... And in my guilt, I did something that I would come to regret even more; I lashed out against the one person I have always loved more than life itself." She pauses and takes several deep breaths, and Harry can't stop himself from reaching out to her and covering her hand with his. She grips it tightly in her own, and when she speaks again, her voice shakes. "I'm sorry, Harry. It was so unfair of me to hurt you like that. None of what happened was your fault. Even as I was hurling accusations at you, I knew that. You did more to protect all of us than I could. Had the Uranium been where I said it was, we would have all been killed. Forgive me."

She raises her eyes to look at him and he sees the torment in them, the same torment he has felt for so long, and he wonders briefly how the pair of them can love each other so much and yet be constantly causing each other so much pain. "I forgave you long ago, Ruth," he murmurs quietly. "We were both hurting at the time over what had happened, and I was remarkably insensitive during our conversation... even by my standards."

A snort of laughter escapes her at his words and he smiles, pleased to have succeeded in lightening the mood. They look at each other for long moments until he judges it a good time to bring them back to their pretence. "What did you do then?" he asks softly.

"I went back to Cyprus," she sighs. "I had Nico to care for and I had George to bury. Maria, George's sister, was very angry with me in her grief and I understood all about that, so I never held it against her. It took her some time to work through those feelings, but we're good friends again now. I began working at the local library, not wishing to go back to the hospital where I'd worked. I tried my best to help Nico through his grief and it wasn't easy, but we muddled through, and as he's grown, I've explained things to him more fully. He's almost fifteen now and he's got a real gift for music. He plays the violin and the piano, and he's also in a choir. He's been pestering me to send him to a music school, but it's expensive and... well, we'll see about that."

"And you? What's your life like now?" he murmurs when she pauses.

"Life? What life? I'm a single parent," she smiles. "We don't have a life."

He chuckles and shakes his head as he murmurs, "Touché."

"I'm a little tired of my life to be honest," she sighs. "Running a library is not as challenging as I would like, and I miss the excitement that my life used to hold, especially now that Nico's older and doesn't need me as much. I was lucky when I met Jean. We don't often have authors agree to visit our little library even though I invite them all the time. For some reason, Jean agreed to come and we became friends overnight. She's been insisting for months now that I come to stay with her here, and eventually I gave in. I'm glad I did now because I've meet you, Harry."

"And this boyfriend Nico mentioned?" he can't help asking.

A sound of frustration escapes her as she shakes her head and complains, "You know, I tried _so_ hard to get him to relax, feel comfortable and confident, and not be afraid of people like he was for several months after George died, that I think I overdid it. Now, he'll make friends with almost anyone within ten minutes of meeting them and he's _terrible_ at keeping secrets. Mind you, he was always like that, sharing far too much information about himself and his family. He'd make a terrible spook." She looks up at him again and sighs. "He wasn't really my boyfriend," she shrugs. "We never did anything together other than... well... he was more of a convenient, and rather more exciting than usual, shag to be honest. One can't be too picky in a small town when one's looking for a no-strings-attached relationship, and he provided it for me."

He nods absently, not quite believing his ears. Ruth looking for casual, convenient sex sounds so out of character. Then again, he thinks sadly, he really doesn't know her that well any more. It's been years since they've worked together, and even back then, he didn't know much about her private life. But the Ruth he'd known had been shy and reserved, whereas now, Ruth is confident and forward. Life has taught her to be self-sufficient and self-reliant. In many ways, he finds this Ruth more alluring than her former self, and yet he can't help missing his shy, awkward analyst.

"I promised myself," she adds quietly, "after George died, that I wouldn't settle for second best again, but I found I wasn't quite ready to lead a celibate life just yet either."

Silence descends over them for several minutes as he tries to push aside images of Ruth having acrobatic sex with an unknown, young, handsome, athletic man.

"So what brings you here, Harry?" he hears her ask softly.

"I found I needed a break from work," he murmurs in response, grateful for the distraction.

"What kind of work do you do?"

"I work in the Security Services," he smiles.

"That sounds dangerous, Harry. Are you a spy?"

"Yes, though nowadays, I'm desk bound and I'm not in as much danger as I used to be, though I have been known to occasionally get shot."

"A high powered, demanding, stressful job, no doubt," she smiles.

"It is that," he chuckles.

"Don't you get tired of it?" she asks next.

"It's been more and more difficult to carry on lately," he admits.

"Why?"

He hesitates for a moment, but finds that he wants to open up to her and this pretence is making it much easier. "I lost someone very dear to me about seven years ago now. I never realized just how important to me she was until she was gone. She was beautiful, smart, passionate, and she had the most amazing eyes you ever saw. But most importantly of all, she had the strongest moral fibre of anyone on my team, and I relied on her to guide me in my decision making. She was the voice of compassion, of morality, of principle, and once she was gone, I began to lose my way. I made mistakes and things frequently got ugly. And over time, the burden of my actions began to weigh me down, and I began to lose myself."

"But why not leave? Why not do something else?"

"Because I wouldn't know what to do with myself if I left, because she left so that I could carry on the good fight, because all the memories I have of her are there," he confesses.

"Until now," she points out gently.

"Until now," he agrees. "But even here... this is a holiday. I can't spend the rest of my life on holiday, Ruth. I'd go mad. I need to be doing something worthwhile."

"And you've never met anyone else?" she asks a little timidly, glancing down at her hands.

"No," he says firmly.

"That's not right, Harry," she objects gently, looking up at him quickly before lowering her gaze once more. "Not when I've..." She tails off embarrassed.

"Ruth," he murmurs as he squeezes her hand gently, "I never expected you to remain faithful to my memory for the rest of your life. You weren't even forty when you left. What kind of a monster would I have been if I'd wanted you to waste the rest of your life pining over my loss? You were young and I wanted you to be happy. Granted, I would have much preferred you to be happy with me, but the way things turned out, it was impossible. And believe me, I never intended to remain faithful to your memory either. As much as was in my power with the hours I work and the free time I have, I did endeavour to meet other women, but I found that I didn't want to settle. I had my fair share of meaningless sex initially, but even that became less and less appealing, so I stopped."

"This woman you mentioned," she asks after a moment's silence as she raises her eyes to look at him. "Did you love her?"

"I loved her, I love her, and I will always love her," he murmurs as he looks into her eyes. He watches as the tears gather and one rolls silently down her cheek. Raising his hand to her face, he cups her cheek and slides his thumb across it to capture the wayward tear as he adds huskily, "Don't cry, Ruth. Don't cry."

"You seem to be saying that a lot tonight, Harry," she replies with a lopsided smile and a small sniff.

"Yes," he agrees, "and I'm still not convinced that they're tears of happiness. The last thing I want to do is cause you pain and make you cry, but it seems to be the only thing I'm good at."

"Only because you refuse to let yourself express what you feel, Harry," she whispers. "If you showed me what you truly felt right now, I'm sure it would make me very happy because, for once, I think we want the same thing at the same time."

"What do you want, Ruth?" he asks a little breathlessly.

"I want you, Harry. I want to love you openly and freely in any way I choose because life is too short and I might never have the opportunity to do so again."

"And what happens in two weeks when you leave, Ruth?" he murmurs huskily.

"We'll figure that out when the time comes, Harry," she smiles. "Maybe we'll find some way for us to live in the same city, maybe we'll agree to meet here every May, maybe we'll never see each other again. But whatever happens, I'll not regret these two weeks with you because I'll finally know what it feels like to be loved by you."

Her voice brakes at her last words, and he has tears in his eyes as he replies, "I love you, Ruth. I love you with all my heart. Love me. Please love me, my darling."

"I do," she murmurs and kisses him. "I do."

With a groan of pleasure, he parts his lips below hers as his fingers tangle themselves in her hair. He feels her hands pressing on his shoulders as she pushes him down and lies across his chest, her soft breasts pressing against the hard planes of his chest, her fingers sliding behind his neck and her other hand gliding down his side. Passion floods his mind once more and he can no longer think as he succumbs to the sensations of her soft, warm body against his own, her scent flooding his nostrils, her warm breath caressing his lips, and her sweet taste titillating his taste-buds. His free hand follows the contours of her back, gliding over the smooth fabric of her dress, pressing her firmly against him until his palm slides over the curve of her buttock, his fingers spreading wide and reaching delicately between her legs. He hears her moan and feels her shift against him and an overwhelming desire to be inside her instantly takes hold of him and galvanises him into action. But as he attempts to shift his weight and roll her underneath him, a stone lying hidden below the blanket digs into his hip, making him inhale sharply with pain, parting the mists of desire clogging his mind, and forcing his brain to kick suddenly into gear.

"Ruth?" he murmurs softly, pressing a gentle kiss to her cheek as he stills.

"Yes?" she whispers and opens her eyes to look at him.

"I love you," he murmurs, fighting hard not to get lost in her passionate gaze and forget all about his misgivings, "and I want you... desperately..."

"But?" she asks as she continues to stare at him with those mesmerizing blue eyes.

"I'll be sixty in November, Ruth," he sighs. "The time for making love on blankets under the starts is long gone. My knees, not to mention my back, will never be the same again... and I wouldn't want you to have to spend the rest of your holiday taking care of an invalid."

She laughs softly and reaches her hand up to caress his cheek before replying, "I've waited more than ten years for this, Harry. I can wait a little longer, especially if there's the prospect of a warm, comfortable bed in which I can spend the entire night with you." She smiles and adds, "Besides, they'll probably send out a search party if we don't get back soon, and we wouldn't want Malcolm, Jean, or heaven forbid, Nico to get an eyeful."

"No," he chuckles, "though it might disabuse him of the notion that I'm gay."

"What?" she asks in astonishment.

He slowly pulls himself to a sitting position before turning to look at her and replying dryly, "Your son had the gall to ask me if I was Malcolm's partner."

"Oh, God, he didn't!" she says in horror before she begins to laugh, giggling uncontrollably for several minutes until she eventually stops and sits up, wiping her eyes with his handkerchief and chuckling softly as she murmurs, "I'm sorry, Harry. He has this friend at school who has two dad's that live together and ever since he found out last year, he's been intrigued by it. It's not that common in Cyprus, especially in a small town like Polis, and I'm afraid it's made quite an impression on him. You wouldn't believe some of the questions I've had to answer on the subject. I see we'll have to have a talk again about making inappropriate remarks and conversation."

"He wasn't rude," Harry quickly reassures her. "He just asked me if I was Malcolm's friend or... partner."

"Well," Ruth replies and he can see that she's trying hard not to smile, "if it makes you feel any better, I had no idea that Antonis, that's one of the dads I mentioned, was gay. He looked very masculine and straight to me. It's no reflection on your masculinity, Harry. I can see how someone might think Malcolm's gay because he's so reserved, but I can't say the same about you. You're as masculine as they come and very sexy with it too."

"Thank you, Ruth," he replies as she kisses his cheek. "Now shall we get back to the others?"

"Let's," she smiles and stands up, brushing down her dress as he stands also.

"Need some help with that?" he asks with a mischievous smile. "My hands are much bigger than yours and I'm sure I'd get more of the debris off you with each sweep."

She laughs and swats his hand away before smiling as she sighs, "God, I've missed you, Harry."

"That's good to know," he replies with a grin. Then he gathers up the blanket, folds it up with her help, and tucks it under his arm before turning to face her. She immediately steps close to his side and tucks her hand into the crook of his free elbow as they make their way toward the house.

As they approach the building, she asks, "Which room is yours, Harry?"

He stops walking and turns to look at her in surprise. "The second on the left at the top of the stairs. Why?"

"No reason," she smiles enigmatically.

His breathing deepens and his heart begins to beat faster as he asks, "Are you intending to pay me a visit?"

"The thought did cross my mind," she replies, "provided you aren't adverse to entertaining ladies in your room late at night, of course."

"There's only one lady I'd consider entertaining in my room, Ruth," he murmurs huskily.

"Oh?" she asks playfully. "Who's that then?"

"You," he growls and drops the blanket, encircling her waist with his hands and pulling her against him for a deep, passionate kiss.


	10. Chapter 10

"Thank you, Harry," she smiles as she kisses his cheek, opens the bathroom door, and disappears inside. It was sweet of him to bring her in through the side door so she could tidy herself up before joining the others, she thinks as she begins to assess the damage that her unusual weepiness and their romp in the garden has caused to her appearance, not to mention the hot kisses they'd just exchanged outside.

Luckily, there's nothing that a good brush and a little make up can't fix, so it doesn't take her long to complete her task, all the while thinking about Harry and how wonderful it is to finally be able to be with him, love him in every way. She's never felt so good. It's as if her entire life has been building up to this moment, and it makes her realize that she'll move heaven and earth to find a way to make it last longer than the two weeks they have here.

"Ruth!" she hears Jean calling her urgently.

With one last check in the mirror, she leaves the bathroom and walks round the corner into the sitting room, but the sight that greets her almost stops her heart. Harry's lying on the sofa, conscious but trembling, his legs elevated onto cushions piled on the arm rest, a look of fear on his face as he struggles to breath. Jean's leaning over him and Malcolm stands near by with his phone in his hand, talking to someone on the other end.

"Harry," she calls and rushes over to him, her heart in her mouth as she stops by his side, taking the spot that Jean's just vacated by his head, kneeling beside him. "Harry, what happened?" she asks, taking his hand in hers.

"He just collapsed," Jean answers. "Malcolm's talking to Philippe, the doctor who owns the villa at the top of the hill, and an ambulance is on its way."

"Nico," she turns to her step-son who's sitting off to the side looking scared. "Go bring my first aid kit. Quickly. It's on my bedside table."

"Here," Jean adds, "Take the key."

"Okay," Nico responds, still looking a little scared, but Ruth can see a look of determination appear in his eyes before he grabs the key and runs to the door.

"Harry," she murmurs softly as she turns toward him, stroking his face with her hand. "It's going to be okay, Harry." She can hear Malcolm on the phone telling the doctor in fluent French all Harry's symptoms, racing pulse, shallow breathing, trembling, dizziness, and all she can think is that she can't loose him again.

"Harry," Malcolm asks. "Are you in pain?"

"I can't breath," he replies as he fights to suck air into his lungs.

"Are you in pain, Harry?" Ruth repeats gently. "Does your chest hurt?"

"No," he chokes out.

"Has this happened before, Harry?" Malcolm asks again after relaying Harry's answer into the phone.

"Yes," he stammers, "Panic... attack."

"It's okay, Harry," Ruth murmurs softly, relieved to hear that it might not be a heart attack after all. "It'll pass. Try to relax. It'll help you breath."

"Ruth," he whispers. "Don't go."

"I'm right here, Harry, and I'm not going anywhere," she smiles, putting on a brave face for him, "and neither are you. Not now that I've found you again. You're going to be fine."

"Ruth," he murmurs urgently, "I love you."

"I know, my love," she replies, oblivious of everyone else around them as she stares into his panicked, hazel eyes. "I love you too. Relax. It's going to be okay. I promise it's going to be okay." Then slowly she feels him begin to relax, his breathing easing a little, his heart rate beginning to drop, the fear slowly leaving his features.

"Here," Nico says breathlessly as he dumps her first aid kit by her knee.

"Thank you," she murmurs. "Help me open it, please," she adds, reluctant to let go of Harry's hand now that he's began to calm down. He pulls open the Velcro and unfolds it, revealing several zipped compartments. "I need to give him some cayenne tincture," she explains, knowing that if this is a heart attack, it's the only thing that'll give him a fighting chance; the ambulance is taking too long. "It should be in the top compartment." Nico quickly locates the bottle and fills the dropper with the liquid, before unscrewing the cap, pulling it out, and handing it to Ruth.

"Thanks," she says and turns to Harry. "Open up, Harry. This'll help your heart rate stabilize." He obediently opens his mouth and she squirts the content into is, saying, "Try to keep it in your mouth for a bit, under your tongue."

The doorbell rings and Malcolm rushes to answer, letting Philippe enter and leading him straight to Harry. "Bonsoir, Harry," he smiles. "Je suis le docteur Philippe Marceaux. Ne vous inquiétez pas. Vous allez vous sentir mieux. Laissez-moi vous examiner."

"Okay," Harry whispers, and then feeling Ruth relax her grip on his hand, he exclaims, "No! Don't go!"

"I'm not going anywhere, Harry," she smiles. "My leg's got pins and needles, that's all."

"Sorry," he murmurs and a small smile appears on his lips.

"It's good to see you smile," Ruth murmurs softly, feeling the relief wash over her as she realizes that he really is going to be okay.

Nico has already collected the first aid kit and moved to stand near Jean who puts a comforting arm round his shoulders and says, "You were great, Nico." Malcolm's also standing near her, holding her other hand and watching apprehensively as the doctor examines Harry. Ruth and Harry are oblivious to this, however, as they gaze into each other's eyes, their hands still linked together as the doctor listens to Harry's heart and lungs.

"Bien, Harry," the doctor says and then switches to English, speaking with a strong French accent. "Your heart seems to be beating normally now, so I believe we can rule out a heart attack. Based on the symptoms Malcolm described to me, you've probably just experienced a panic attack. Have you had this before?"

"Yes," he murmurs, "twice."

"Récemment?" he frowns.

"In the last three months," Harry replies.

"Well, it seems that we have the diagnosis, but I think that you should go to hospital. I'd like you to have some tests just to be safe, to make sure your heart is strong," Philip continues.

"Surely that's not necessary, Doctor," Harry objects as he slowly sits up. "I feel fine now, nothing that a good night's rest won't cure."

"Harry," Ruth frowns at him before the doctor can reply, "you're going into hospital."

"But Ruth," Harry replies, "I'm fine. It was just a panic attack."

"And how would you know the difference?" she asks. "Have you had a heart attack before?"

"No," he admits, "but-"

"But nothing," she interrupts. "I don't care what I have to do to get you there, you're going to hospital, Harry."

"She means it," Nico pipes up.

"You should listen to your wife, Harry," the doctor smiles. "It's for the best."

There's silence for a few moments after the doctor's remark. Ruth's momentarily thrown by it but she soon feels her heart swell at the thought. Even if it was only a panic attack, it was bloody terrifying to see Harry like that, to think that she might loose him so soon after finding him again, and it makes her realize more clearly than ever that she won't stop at anything this time to be with him, build a life with him. Her thoughts are interrupted by Malcolm clearing his throat and murmuring, "Actually, Philippe, Harry-"

"Is a little pig headed at times, but we love him dearly and we'll make sure that he goes into hospital tonight," Ruth finishes for him as she turns to look at Harry with a soft smile, leaving no one in the room in any doubt of her love for the man before her.

Harry almost sighs in contentment, his breathing deepening and the apprehension in his eyes that had appeared at the doctor's remark dissolving into a look of pure love.

"But fortunately for him," Jean adds with a laugh, "Ruth's as stubborn as he is, so there's no way she'll let him have his own way."

"Speaking of hospitals," Malcolm adds suddenly. "I should cancel that ambulance." He pulls out his phone and walks over to the window to make the call, while Harry turns to the doctor.

"Philippe," he says as he stands and turns to face him, "as much as I'd like to please Ruth, there's no need to conduct any tests at the hospital. My first panic attack happened while I was at work, and as you can imagine, I was carted off straight to the hospital where all manner of sundry tests were carried out on me despite my numerous and very vocal protests. I'm fine. All I need is a good meal and some sleep."

"Très bien," the doctor replies as he puts his stethoscope away in his bag, "if this is the way you feel, ainsi soit-il. Needless to say if you feel any tightness in the chest, or-"

"Of course, Doctor," Harry interrupts. "I'll have Malcolm drive me straight to A&E. Thank you so much for coming and I apologise for having interrupted your evening unnecessarily."

"De rien," Philip smiles. "It goes with the territory I'm afraid. No one forced me to become a doctor. Bien. Bonne nuit, Harry." They shake hands and Malcolm steps forward, inviting him to stay for dinner and leading him to the front door when he makes his excuses.

Ruth takes the opportunity to walk over to her step son and embrace him before pulling back and saying, "You were wonderful, Nico. Your dad would have been so proud of you."

"Thanks, Ruth," he smiles as he looks down at her (he's already two inches taller than her) and places a kiss against her cheek.

"Where's my glass of wine?" Harry asks the room in general as he looks around for it, making a face before adding, "What on earth did you give me, Ruth? It tastes disgusting."

"I would have thought you'd like it, Harry," she smiles as she turns to face him. "It's about eighty per cent alcohol."

"I assure you that my tastes are slightly more refined then that statement implies, Ruth," he growls, narrowing his eyes at her.

"Sorry," she smiles, not feeling sorry at all, just happy to have Harry back. "It does have an awful after-taste. It is pepper after all." She walks over to the side table and pours him a glass of wine, bringing it over and offering it out to him.

"Thanks," he murmurs and takes a swig before frowning suddenly and asking, "Pepper?"

"Cayenne pepper tincture to be precise," she smiles, "something no first aid kit should be without."

"What does it do?" Malcolm asks with interest having shown the doctor out and returned to the room.

"It boosts circulation, increases heart action, stabilizes blood pressure, and stops bleeding," Nico replies and there is pride in his voice as he adds, "My dad used it as the first treatment for a heart attack and he always said that it's the one herbal remedy every doctor should know about. He taught all his heart patients how to use it as well, in case of an emergency. Did you know that people have been pronounced dead from a heart attack, and when cayenne extract has been placed in their mouths fast enough, they've come back to life without the use of a defibrillator?"

"No," Malcolm shakes his head, "I had no idea. Looks like I'm going to have to look into that. As you can see, the one disadvantage of our location is the amount of time it takes for the ambulance to arrive and get you to the hospital, and if Philippe isn't home... well, things don't bode well for your chances of survival."

"I can leave you my bottle of cayenne extract when we go home, Malcolm," Ruth offers, "and I think I might have an extra to leave with you Jean, but it's possible to make it yourself. I know I've seen instructions online."

"Thank you," Malcolm smiles.

"Right," Jean says, clapping her hands together loudly and drawing everyone's attention. "Dinner, I think. I don't know about you lot, but I'm starving."


	11. Chapter 11

"Hello, Malcolm, come in," Jean smiles, pleased that he took up her offer of coming round to hers for a nightcap. She'd come home with Ruth and Nico a little earlier after they'd all shared a delicious dinner and lively conversation on a variety of subjects. Nico was already asleep upstairs in his room and Ruth had gone out, murmuring something about going for a walk and maybe calling on Harry, so she'd rung Malcolm and invited him over, knowing how uncomfortable he'd be if he ended up playing gooseberry and wanting to spend some time alone with him anyway. She hasn't seen him since Christmas, which they'd spent here together, and she's missed him terribly.

"Thank you," Malcolm smiles and holds out a bottle of wine.

"Oh, you didn't need to do that, Malcolm," she objects.

"I know," he blushes. "I'd bought it for dinner and we never ended up drinking it, so I thought I'd bring it over to share."

"Thanks," Jean smiles. "Take a seat while I get us some glasses." She closes the door and walks through to the kitchen, leaving Malcolm to make himself comfortable in her absence. She's discovered that this technique works best for him and allows him to relax a little, something that's hard for him to do if he doesn't have a moment alone.

By the time she walks through to the sitting room with the glasses, Malcolm has already opened the wine and is sitting comfortably on her sofa. Normally, she'd take the seat to his right in the arm chair, but tonight she's feeling bold, so she walks over to his left and sits by him on the sofa, placing the wine glasses on the table and leaning back against the cushions. He looks momentarily disconcerted by the unusual seating arrangement, but he recovers quickly and leans forward to pour the wine before handing her a glass and saying, "What shall we drink to tonight?"

"To Harry and Ruth," she suggests.

"Harry and Ruth," he agrees and they take a sip of their wine.

"Mmmm," she smiles. "This is good stuff, Malcolm."

"It's all right," he replies, "but I find it a little peppery, don't you?" She laughs at the face he makes; there's something so... very Malcolm about it, so endearing, that she wants to just kiss him. He looks up at her in surprise. "What's so funny?" he asks.

"I just..." she smiles, not quite sure how to put this in a way that won't offend him. "I love you." The words are out of her mouth before she can stop them, and she has to work hard not to wince at her stupidity, terrified that her words will send him running for the hills. Malcolm's jaw drops open and he looks completely flummoxed for a few seconds before the colour rises to his cheeks and he lowers his gaze, looking down at his wine glass as he turns it slowly, nervously round and round in his hands.

"I'm sorry, Malcolm," she whispers softly after an awkward pause. "I didn't mean to say that... Not that it's not true," she hastens to add, not wishing him to think that she didn't mean it and then realizing that she's not helping the situation at all. She sighs and takes a deep breath before continuing. "What happened today... with Harry... it scared the life out of me. I felt so helpless. I mean, if it had been a heart attack, he could have just died in your living room and there would have been nothing we could have done to save him. And I could almost hear Ruth thinking, "Don't let him die, don't let him die, not now that we've found each other again." And I realized, as I was sitting here on my own, that it could so easily have been you, Malcolm, instead of Harry, though admittedly you take much better care of yourself than he does from what you told me earlier. Anyway, I realized that I don't want to miss this opportunity that I have to... be with you because life's too short. And I'm pretty sure that you're also interested in being more than just my best friend. Am I wrong?"

He doesn't look at her or say anything for several moments, but she's confident that she hasn't imagined his regard and the chemistry between them, so she leans forward and presses a kiss to his cheek before pulling back and saying, "I've startled you into silence, Malcolm. Forgive me. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. You're the sweetest, kindest, most considerate and intelligent man I know and a true gentleman, but I understand that you're also rather shy and perhaps a little unsure of yourself where relationships are concerned. And I know that I'm quite the opposite, but... although perhaps I can't relate, I _do_ respect the way you are. I'm not going to bully you into giving me an answer or doing something you don't want to do, but I'd like us to help each other slowly move forward... if that's what you want too."

"I'd like that," he whispers though he's still not looking at her.

She smiles in relief, and placing her hand on his knee, she squeezes it gently and replies, "Good." There's a short, rather pregnant silence that follows her words, so she takes a sip of her wine and decides to change the subject. "So tell me about Ruth and Harry. How long were they together before Ruth left and why did she even leave in the first place?"

She can feel Malcolm relax a little as he clears his throat, takes a sip of his wine, and says quietly, "Well... do you remember when we first met at that conference in Marseilles, you asked me what I did before I became a writer and I said computer security?"

"Yes," she smiles, remembering how stuck she'd been by the quiet, and in her opinion, incredibly sexy Malcolm in his soft, blue cashmere sweater that picked out the colour of his eyes so perfectly as he sat at the side of the lecture hall, a look of intense concentration on his features as he listened to the man giving the talk. Then the speaker had made some silly joke and Malcolm had smiled, a little half-smile that had lit up his face, and she'd immediately decided to seek him out and introduce herself. She'd wasted little time in doing so afterwards, approaching him with a cup of coffee in hand in the lounge and asking if the seat beside him was taken. She was used to men looking at her with admiration, but when he'd raised his eyes from his book to look at her, she'd seen much more than that in his gaze. It had been wonder, and she'd come to realize within about ten seconds of sitting down next to him that he had no idea how attractive he was and was genuinely amazed that a beautiful woman would wish to sit by him.

"Well," he continues, blushing slightly, "it was a bit more than that. I actually used to work for MI-5."

"No!" she says in amazement. "Really?"

"Yes," he nods and risks a glance at her face, the first time he's looked at her since her declaration of love.

"That's so... so... cool, Malcolm!" she exclaims. "And I know that I never use that word because we both hate it, but there's really no other I can think of right now that fits. I mean, I don't even know why I'm surprised. You're so smart, of course you'd have been working on something more that just computer security. Wow! And Harry and Ruth worked with you at MI-5?"

"Yes," he nods, smiling slightly at her enthusiasm.

"What kind of things did you do?" she asks eagerly.

He looks apologetic all of a sudden and lowers his gaze as he murmurs, "I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to discuss that, Jean. None of us are allowed to talk about our work, not even with each other on certain occasions. Harry usually knows what's going on, but everyone below him doesn't always have the complete picture."

"Harry was your boss?" she asks.

He frowns slightly and then says, "Jean, it's important that what I tell you goes no further. I may not work for Five any more, but Harry does and-"

"Of course, Malcolm," she interrupts, looking at him earnestly. "I understand. My lips are sealed. I won't speak of it to anyone else or write about it in any of my books. I give you my word."

"Thank you," he smiles. "I know I can trust you."

You can trust me with more than just your secrets, Malcolm, she wants to tell him, you can trust me with anything and everything, including your heart... but she doesn't. Instead she says, "So Harry was your boss?"

"Yes," he nods and a fond smile appears on his lips. "He's very good at what he does, and most of the time, it was a privilege to work for him."

"Most of the time?" she asks and immediately regrets it as Malcolm's eyes darken with sorrow. "Sorry," she adds quickly, "I didn't mean to pry."

"It's okay," he murmurs, giving her a lopsided, half smile. "I had a good friend in the service who was killed in the field. His name was Colin and I still miss him."

"Who is he? In your books, I mean," she asks softly as she gently takes his hand in hers and is pleased when he doesn't pull back.

"Arthur Cornwell," he replies with a smile. Then after a moment he adds, "You know, I called Harry a pompous, old fool once, just after it had happened."

She chuckles softly and they fall silent for a few moments, sipping their wine and getting lost in their thoughts. She wonders how many other friends and colleagues he'd lost while in the service and feels a sudden gratitude that he's retired from that life. She doesn't think that she could bear the worry of not knowing if he's safe every day. She rubs her thumb over the back of his hand and feels him tense momentarily before he relaxes again, so she continues to caress him and soon she feels him respond in kind, his thumb running slowly over her knuckles, his touch causing a shiver of pleasure to run down her spine and her skin to come up in goose bumps. She closes her eyes for a moment, savouring the sensation before opening them again to take another sip of wine, not wanting him to notice in case it makes him uncomfortable and he stops.

Seeing her almost empty glass, Malcolm releases her hand to reach for the bottle to refill their glasses, and she misses his touch instantly. "Thanks," she murmurs as he tops it up and she takes another sip while she watches him pour some wine for himself and return the bottle to the table. The glasses she's chosen are large and the bottle is almost empty now. He leans back against the cushions, and to her immense pleasure, he reaches for her hand, enveloping it in his own. She smiles and runs her thumb over his skin, beginning their little dance all over again. "So what happened with Ruth and Harry?" she asks.

"Nothing," Malcolm sighs. "Well, almost nothing. Do you remember the riots in London in 2006?"

"Yes," Jean nods. "Who could forget? I was _in_ that march on the Houses of Parlament, you know. There was chaos everywhere, police barricading us into tight spaces, people panicking. Then at some point we heard gunshots, though thankfully they were not firing at us. It was a frightening experience, I can tell you."

"Well," Malcolm continues carefully, "Harry was in grave danger during that time and we were all really worried, especially Ruth. I think it made them both realize how much they meant to each other because, after those events, Harry and Ruth went out to dinner. Inevitably, however, someone found out about it and the office was rife with gossip... and I'm ashamed to say that I was part of it. I... mentioned it to Ruth, that I was very pleased for her, and after that, she broke it off... I still feel guilty about it."

"But she's crazy about him," Jean observes with a frown, surprised that someone could walk away from a love so strong and deep.

"I know," Malcolm sighs. "I think that was the hardest part for Harry to deal with at the time and the reason perhaps that, ultimately, he never moved on. Anyway, after a couple of months it ceased to matter because Ruth had to leave. Remember the scandal of the prisoners being transferred out of the country to be tortured?"

"Yes!" she exclaims. "A lot of powerful people lost their jobs over that."

"Harry would have been one of them had it not been for Ruth's actions," he continues. "Don't get me wrong, Harry didn't and would never condone torture, but he was set up to take the blame, so Ruth took it instead... to protect him. We helped her fake her own death, which is why she still can't return to Britain."

"Wow," she breaths, amazed at the intensity and drama of these events, and wondering once again what his life must have been like when he worked for the service.

"Last time she came back," Malcolm continues, "she was fleeing from terrorists who were after her and her family for some information she was safeguarding. They'd already captured Harry and when Ruth came to us for protection, I slipped up. I logged their location into the system, but we had a mole we weren't aware of and he found them. They killed Ruth's husband, George, Nico's father, in order to pressure Ruth and Harry to reveal the location of what they were looking for." He sighs heavily and squeezes her hand unconsciously as he continues, "It was my fault they were in danger. I felt responsible, so I went round there, to the safe house where they were holding Nico, and offered my life in exchange for his... and miraculously, I managed to talk the man out of hurting him; he just walked away.

"Harry wasn't so lucky. He refused to divulge the information they asked for, even when they threatened Nico's life. He had no choice really; too many people would have been harmed if he'd given it up and many of them would, no doubt, have been children... but being able to do that with Ruth in front of him, begging him to give in... I still don't know how he did it. It's a rare gift to be able to detach your emotions so completely like that and use it for good instead of evil. It's why he's so good at his job and why he's been given leave of absence instead of the sack. Afterwards, Ruth left with Nico and that's the last time they ever saw each other until today."

"Dear God," Jean whispers in shock. "And after _all_ that, they still love each other to bits."

"Yes," Malcolm nods.

"And all they've had together, outside of work, is _one_ date in _seven years_... They've never cooked together, never lazed about on a Sunday afternoon with each other, never read a book to one another, never had sex!" she whispers in amazement, still too shocked to realize what she's saying and to whom.

"I... um," he stammers, blushing again.

"Unless they did tonight," she teases, unable to resist the temptation as she becomes aware of what she's said and how uncomfortable it's made Malcolm. "They were in the garden an awfully long time and Harry looked rather pleased with himself when he came back in. What do you think? Did they or didn't they?"

"I..." he murmurs and stops, looking away as his face turns a deeper red.

"All right, I'll drop the subject," she smiles. Then she has a thought and adds, "but only if you agree to dance with me." She watches him for a moment as he processes this and turns to look at her uncertainly. "Come on, Malcolm. Dance with me. You can choose the music. Please," she pleads, "just one dance."

"Okay," he nods and gets up, draining his glass before placing it on the coffee table and walking over to the shelf in the corner where a large, zipped case full of CDs lies next to a CD player. She watches him, admiring his tall, slim figure and particularly his gorgeous rear as he quickly flips through her CD collection that she always brings with her. He's often teased her for her attachment to her CDs, threatening to buy her one of those mp3 players for Christmas and load her entire music collection onto it.

He takes out a CD and puts it in the machine before pressing play and turning to face her, a small, half smile on his lips as the first notes begin to play.

"Por una Cabeza?!" she asks in surprise as she places her own glass next to his and gets up. "I didn't know you could tango, Malcolm."

"Argentine tango is my favourite," he replies. "Mother thought it an important part of my education. I had ballroom dance lessons for eight years."

"Well, in that case," she smiles, "I'm going to have to dress appropriately. I need some heels for this. Don't go anywhere." She turns quickly on her heel and dashes upstairs to her room. She knows exactly what she wants to put on for this!

Entering her room and pushing the door closed behind her, she quickly slips out of her blouse and trousers, and walks over to the wardrobe, extracting the emerald green dress that she'd bought a few years ago, the one she always wears to go dancing. She loves Latin dances and especially the tango, and she can't believe that it's taken her three years to find out that Malcolm can dance.

The dress is a strapless little number with a ruffled tulip-hem that hugs her curves tightly and is cut lower in the front than at the back, ending just above her knees. The bodice is scattered with tiny silver beads that sparkle as she moves and she knows she looks gorgeous in it; it's just the right shade of green to bring out her eyes. She absolutely _loves_ this dress. She slips it on quickly, knowing that every second that passes will make her companion downstairs more anxious. Then she quickly plaits her hair and ties it up in a bun, holding it in place with her silver hairpin before finally slipping on her two and a half inch, silver heels that she'd also bought specially for dancing. She doesn't bother with jewellery, leaving the simple gold locket that she always wears hanging round her neck, and makes her way back downstairs. As she turns the corner toward the sitting room, she can hear the same music still playing and she's relieved and a little proud of herself that she's managed her transformation so swiftly.

When she enters the room, Malcolm's looking out the window and she takes a moment to observe him, noting the slight tension in his shoulders and the nervous way in which he taps his fingers against the sill. Smiling fondly at him and resisting the temptation to just embrace him and kiss him senseless, she quietly walks over to the CD player and stops the music. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him spin round to face her and do an almost comical double take as she presses play once more, starting the tango from the beginning. Then she turns to face him and smiles. "I thought I'd better play it from the beginning seeing as I've missed most of the dance," she says.

He nods, his eyes roaming over her as if of their own accord, and for the first time ever, she sees naked desire clearly displayed in his gaze and it pleases her no end. It's several seconds before he manages to pull himself together, and he blushes deeply once he realizes what he's been doing. He looks at his shoes uncomfortably for several moments, so she takes a few steps toward him as she murmurs softly, "Come on, Malcolm, or I'm going to have to restart it again. You promised me a dance."

"I... yes," he agrees and lifts his eyes once more, still looking uncomfortable and a little dazed. He clears his throat and murmurs, "Would you do me the honour of dancing with me, Jean?"

"It will be my great pleasure, Malcolm," she smiles and steps into his arms.

He holds her gently, but firmly as he leads her across the floor, moving slowly at first as they get used to each other and begin to loose themselves in the music. She can feel the tension leave his body as they move and knows the exact moment when he stops feeling self-conscious and anxious and begins to just enjoy the dance. He pulls her into a close hold and leads her across the floor almost effortlessly, guiding her movements gently with his own subtle weight shifts and movements of his shoulders. It's sheer bliss to dance with him like this, letting the music flow through her body, lifting her up and sparking a deeper, stronger connection between them.

When the music stops, they slowly come to a standstill, breathing deeply from the exertion and their emotions which are running high. Slowly she turns her head to look at him and their gazes meet, open, trusting, adoring, and it's a long time before the silence between them is broken.

"You're breathtaking," he murmurs softly, his voice low and husky, taking her completely by surprise and making her insides melt. Then before she can recover, he leans forward and presses his lips against hers softly, once, twice, three times until she can't take it any more and she slides her arms up over his shoulders and pulls his head down, kissing him with all the pent up longing of the last three years.

She feels him respond to her, kissing her back with equal passion as his arms wrap round her, and soon she can feel his arousal pressing firmly against her abdomen. It's when she slides her hips sideways against him that he inhales sharply and suddenly pulls back, his cheeks burning with embarrassment as he lowers his arms to his sides and turns away, clearing his throat and murmuring, "It's late. I should go."

She realizes that she's pushed him too far and immediately regrets it. She wants to apologise, but she knows it'll only increase his embarrassment, and yet, she doesn't want the evening to end on such a note. Thinking quickly, she realizes that she's finally found the key to unlocking Malcolm's passionate side, and she can't help the triumphant smile that appears on her lips momentarily before she replies softly, "You're right. It's late... but would you, please, share one more dance with me before you go?"

She sees him hesitate, so she moves over to the CD player and skips back to the tango they'd just shared, "Por una Cabeza." Then she approaches him and waits, watching the emotions play across his face and almost sighing with relief when he takes her in his arms again and begins to dance. She looses herself in the music once more and lets him guide her across her sitting room floor, living in the moment, savouring the connection between them and the exhilaration of dancing.

When the music stops this time, she pulls back a little before turning her head to look at him. "Thank you, Malcolm," she murmurs and kisses his cheek.

"It was my pleasure, Jean," he replies.

"We should do it again some time," she smiles as she steps back from him completely, giving him the space she suspects he needs.

"Yes," he agrees, watching her for a few moments before adding, "There's an Argentine Tango Club in Ajaccio that I visit sometimes to dance. Would you like to go there sometime?"

"I'd love to, Malcolm," she replies, feeling her heart flutter with pleasure.

"How about tomorrow evening?" he says quickly.

"Yes," she nods eagerly.

"Good," he smiles and holds her gaze for a few seconds, the warmth from it making her heart beat faster. Then he becomes self-conscious again and looks down uncomfortably for a few moments until eventually he murmurs, "I'd better be getting home. Thanks for a lovely evening, Jean."

"I had a lovely time too, Malcolm," she replies as they walk toward her front door. She pulls it open and steps aside to let him pass which he does, pausing on the threshold and turning to face her. They watch each other for a moment and she can see that he's unsure of himself once more. This is the Malcolm she's used to, the timid, wonderful man she's in love with and it makes her smile.

"Goodnight," she says and stepping close to him, she presses a kiss to his cheek and pulls back.

"Goodnight, Jean," he replies and turns to walk down the drive.

She watches him go for a few moments, returning his wave as he reaches the road before closing the door softly and leaning against it as she lets her eyes slide shut. She smiles as she recalls their dances and the feel of his lips on hers, kissing her passionately, and she sighs in contentment. This is going to be one hell of a summer, and if she plays her cards right, a wonderful autumn, winter and spring too, perhaps for the rest of their lives.


	12. Chapter 12

"Harry?" he hears her call softly, so he lifts his eyes from the ground and turns toward the sound of her voice.

"I'm here," he calls and moments later she appears before him, wearing the same, stunning, blue dress that makes his heart skip several beats.

"What are you doing out here?" she asks, taking a few steps closer.

"I'm looking for something," he answers as he lets his gaze sweep over her, unable to resist the temptation. He just can't get enough of her, can't quite believe that she's really here.

"Well," she smiles as she steps closer, "I think you've found her."

He chuckles softly and takes her outstretched hand in his, bringing it to his lips and pressing a soft, sensual kiss against her knuckles.

"Mmmm," she hums, "Sir Harry, what a gallant gesture. It's a good job I'm not prone to swooning."

He laughs this time and pulls her by the hand until she steps into his arms. He holds her close, enveloping her in his arms, marvelling at the fact that she's letting him do it, and thanking his lucky starts for this chance he's been given.

"So," she says after a few moments, "what are you looking for? Can I help?"

He hesitates, not sure if he wants to reveal how important it is to him, but then realizing that he can't very well refuse her help without offering an explanation. "It's a piece of card inside a plastic bag," he murmurs eventually.

"How big is it?" she asks.

"It's the size of a postcard or photo," he replies.

"Oh! That big?" she says in surprise. She pulls back from him and glances around the ground quickly before declaring, "Well, it's obviously not here then. Where did you drop it?"

"If I knew that, Ruth," he grumbles in annoyance, "I'd know where to find it, wouldn't I?"

"All right," she frowns. "There's no need to take that tone with me, Harry. I was simply trying to ask where you were the last time you had it."

He stops to think about that. He was reading it right under this tree this morning and then it had been in his pocket the rest of the day. He'd slipped it into his pocket when he'd got changed before dinner and... wait! He'd been fingering it when Ruth had arrived. He spins round and walks away from her, scanning the ground as he retraces their steps from earlier and then he spots it, lying on the ground by his long forgotten wine glass. He bends over and picks them both up, placing the glass on the garden wall and turning the card over in his hand to make sure it hasn't been damaged before quickly slipping it back into his pocket.

When he turns round, he sees that Ruth's been watching him. "I found it," he murmurs, stating the obvious.

"That's good," she replies. "Care to tell me what it is?"

He sighs and takes a step back, leaning against the wall behind him and looking down at the ground. He doesn't want to tell her what it is, doesn't want to reveal how vulnerable and pathetic he's become... but if he doesn't, she'll think he's hiding something sinister, perhaps something given to him by another woman, and he can't afford to loose her again. So he replies softly, "It's a postcard... from you." He hears her approach and looks up, meeting her warm gaze with his own and taking the hand she stretches out toward him. The love he sees in her eyes gives him the courage he needs to open up to her, to trust that she won't think less of him for his current state of weakness. "The panic attack," he continues softly, "that I had earlier, it was because I couldn't find it. I always carry it in my pocket and it must have fallen out when I pulled out my handkerchief. It seems so... stupid to panic about a postcard..." He tails off, feeling embarrassed and disgusted with himself.

"It's not," she replies firmly. "You're not stupid, or weak, or pathetic, or any other negative adjective you're using to describe yourself inside your head, Harry. You're the same courageous, strong, loyal, honourable, caring man I feel in love with when I was just a naïve junior analyst. You've just pushed yourself too far, beyond your body's capacity to cope, and now you need to give yourself time to recover. Everyone has a breaking point, remember? You've reached yours and I think that you're rather fortunate that it's happened while you were with friends instead of your enemies." She steps closer to him, between his knees, and raises her hand to cup his cheek, murmuring, "Forget everything, Harry. For two weeks, nothing else matters. It's just you and me... together."

She kisses his lips softly and pulls back, giving him an encouraging smile that he tries to return. Their gazes hold for several moments, and he feels the first sparks of hope ignite and take hold in his battered, old heart. Perhaps she's right, perhaps all he needs is a break, a little rest and a little peace, and someone to love and take care of him, but most importantly of all, perhaps he needs someone to take care of, to give him purpose again, something worth fighting for.

"I almost killed a man, Ruth," he blurts out suddenly, unable to hold back, needing to confess to ease his feelings of guilt and fear. He used to be able to bury these things deep inside him, but now they won't stay down any more and the effort of keeping them there is part of the reason he's falling apart at the seams. And he trusts Ruth more than anyone else, more than he trusts himself right now because her integrity runs so deep that it's part of her very essence, and he knows for a fact that no one could ever turn her and, therefore, she will never betray him.

"I hate to point this out, Harry," she smiles softly as she lowers her hand from his cheek and places it on his hip, "but I think you'll find that you've actually killed quite a few people."

He smiles in spite of himself, knowing that she's not criticising. Killing is an unsavoury but necessary part of what they do. "It was different this time," he sighs. "The bloke in question was a real piece of work and the world would, no doubt, have been better off without him in it, but that's not what's been bothering me... Every time I've had to take a life, Ruth, I've been in control, I knew what I was doing and why. I was usually calm, collected, sometimes angry, but always in control. This time... I was in a blind fury. There was no _reason_ behind it... I just snapped. He said something to provoke and I lost it. I picked up a gun and raised it to shoot him. Dimitri jerked my arm up at the last moment, but it didn't stop me. I just went for him. It took both Dimitri and Calum to subdue me... Next day, Erin told me I needed to take leave, and after what had happened, I didn't wait for her to threaten to report me to the DG." He pauses and looks into her eyes as he adds in a whisper, "I don't know if I can trust myself any more, Ruth." He's done it; he's opened himself up to her completely. Never in his life has he done this before, has he left himself so open, so vulnerable, without any barriers, any defences.

"Oh, Harry," she sighs softly, lifting both her hands to caress his face, gently tracing the worry lines she finds there as he watches her beautiful eyes that are so full of love for him. How could he have let her go all those years ago? He should never have let her go. "_I_ know I can trust you, and I know you can trust yourself, but you need to be patient and let yourself recover, Harry. You need to sleep and rest. You're running on empty, my love. Let me take care of you. I want and need to take care of you. Two weeks of TLC and you'll be back on your feet, Harry. I promise."

"I don't want just two weeks, Ruth," he whispers and he knows his eyes are begging her to stay with him. "I can't loose you again. I can't live without you any more. It's too hard."

"You won't have to, Harry," she smiles. "I'll have to go back to arrange some things, get Nico transferred to another school while you call in some favours and sort out something regarding my status back home, but when all that's done, we'll come to live with you. I don't want to live without you either."

He feels tears spring to his eyes at her words and tries to blink them away, but he can't stop the flow and soon they're streaming down his cheeks faster than she can wipe them away. "Shhhh," she whispers and pulls him into her arms, letting him cry against her chest as her fingers slide through his hair and massage his neck, and her other hand rubs comforting circles against his back. Eventually, the tears stop and he lifts his head, reaching into his pocket for his handkerchief and finding it missing.

"I'm afraid I stole that," she smiles.

"So you did," he nods as he wipes at his cheeks with the back of his hand.

"Come," she says and pulls him by the hand, picking up the empty wine glass as she leads him to the house. They enter through the patio door and Ruth takes the glass through to the kitchen while he goes to the bathroom to clean himself up.

When he comes back out, Ruth's put some music on and is slowly swaying on her feet as she gazes out the window. "There's no sunshine when she's gone, and she's always gone too long, any time she goes away," Bill Withers sings as he watches her for several moments before he approaches, placing his hand round her waist and pulling her against his chest, his other hand clasping hers and leading her around the room in a slow dance.

"Nice song," he comments, "and so apt. There _is_ no sunshine when you're gone, Ruth."

"I think that's just London weather, Harry," she smiles.

He chuckles and pulls her closer, kissing her hair softly. She smiles as she rests her head on his shoulder and murmurs, "Do you remember our first dance, Harry?"

"Yes," he replies, his voice deep and sensual, "at the office Christmas party."

"I was terrified," she smiles.

"Terrified?" he asks, tilting his head to look at her. "Of me?"

"Oh, God no," she replies. "Well, not in the way you think. I was terrified I'd make a mistake, make a fool of myself, show you how infatuated with you I was."

"I already knew that, Ruth," he murmurs softly, "and I felt the same way, though I did my best to cure myself of the feeling. I was your boss, not to mention more than a decade older than you, and it was inappropriate, or so I thought at the time. Knowing you fancied me, however, made it so much harder. Perhaps that's why I failed."

"I had no idea you thought of me like that back then," she replies.

"I feel as if I've always thought of you like that, Ruth," he murmurs. They're silent for a few moments and then he asks, "Where's Malcolm?"

"He's gone over to see Jean," she replies.

"Oh?" he murmurs with interest. "I wondered about them."

"I'm glad," she smiles against his chest. "They both deserve some happiness."

"Like us?" he asks.

"Just like us," she replies as she lifts her head and slips her arms round his neck, pressing her lips gently against his.

His eyes slide shut and he sighs with pleasure as he pulls her against him, feeling her body mould to his as they kiss softly and sensually. When they part a few moments later, he whispers huskily, "Come upstairs, Ruth."

"Yes," she replies, her eyes sparkling pools of love. "Yes, Harry."

They make their way upstairs hand in hand, gazing at each other the entire time until they're in his room and the door is closed behind them. He reaches for her then and wraps her in his arms, feeling his heart overflow with love for her as they kiss ardently and make love slowly, and it's gentle and beautiful and all they'd ever hoped it would be.

Afterwards, they hold each other close while they bask in the afterglow, the moonlight streaming in through the window and casting shadows across the floor.

"Harry?" she murmurs quietly against his chest.

"Yes?" he replies huskily, running the fingers of one hand through her hair and the palm of the other across her hip.

"That was worth the wait," she smiles.

"I'm glad you said that," he murmurs turning his head to kiss her forehead.

"You weren't worried, were you?" she teases as she raises herself onto her elbow to look down at him. "The great Harry Pearce, serial womaniser and daring spy?"

He blushes and is grateful that she can't see it in the soft moonlight. Something about the beauty of the evening, the tenderness of their love making, and the way they've opened up to each other tonight, makes him not even hesitate before saying in a deep voice, "No one else has ever meant more to me, Ruth. So, yes, I was a little worried. After all, you've just revealed that you had an exiting lover back in Cyprus, and I have to admit that I'm a little rusty and past my prime."

"I don't know, Harry," she replies lightly, "they say that men are like wine; they become better lovers as they age. They know what to do to get a woman aroused, and they take their time. And you, my adorable, sexy man, have just proved them right." She leans forward and kisses his lips softly before adding, "And besides, just the fact that I'm with you makes the sex much more than just exciting, Harry. More than ten years worth of sexual tension and longing has a rather powerful effect, not to mention the fact that I absolutely adore you."

He watches her intently, marvelling at how beautiful and self-confident she is.

"What?" she asks with a frown.

"You're so different, Ruth," he murmurs softly, "so confident and forward, so comfortable with who you are."

She shakes her head gently and replies, "Not really, Harry. I still grapple with feelings of guilt every day. It's easier for me to express what I feel, but I've had to work hard to get there. After what happened... what I said to you... it was a wake up call. I realized that I needed to learn to grieve openly, to learn to release my emotions and not bottle them up. That's why I let myself cry now when I feel like it. Otherwise the grief, the hurt turns to anger and eventually bitterness. And I needed to pull myself together in order to help Nico. Having him to care for forced me to face many of my fears and work on my weaknesses. But if we'd met again under different circumstances, perhaps back in London with you still at work, I'm not sure if I'd have had the courage to be so forthright and forward. So it's not just me. It's you too who's different. You'd probably call it vulnerable, but I tend to think of it as being open. You're open to more than just the job, to sharing more of yourself, to showing me who you really are." He shakes his head and opens his mouth to disagree, but she doesn't let him, saying, "It doesn't matter what the reason behind it is, Harry. The fact is you're open and prepared to meet me half way. After our date, when I broke it off, did you love me as much as you do now?"

"Yes," he murmurs.

"But you did nothing, you let me walk away. You never once tried to change my mind, to reason with me, to tell me that the gossip wasn't worth loosing something so special, to reassure me that you were serious about me... because you weren't open then, you didn't want to appear vulnerable. And I'm not saying it would have made any difference if you had; it probably wouldn't have. I was very scared back then and you were so confident, powerful, and sexy. You were a Mr. Rochester, and much like Jane Eyre, I didn't feel like I had anything to offer you; I wasn't your equal, just a weakness."

"I never thought of you like that," he murmurs with a frown.

"I know you didn't," she smiles, "but it turned out to be true. I was your weakness, and after I'd left, I kept kicking myself for walking away from you that night at Havensworth, for not enjoying fully the time we'd had together because, what had been the use of denying us if I'd ultimately been used to get to you anyway? To paraphrase Hattie Morahan in the BBC Sense and Sensibility adaptation, 'I had suffered all the punishment of an attachment without enjoying any of the advantages.'"

He frowns, thinking over what she's said and realizing that, at some level, she's right. It would have been hard for her to see how much her mere presence by his side everyday calmed him, kept him on an even keel. Even he had failed to realize how important to him she'd really become until she'd left. "Do you feel the same way now?" he asks.

"No," she replies. "Now I know that we need each other to be happy and that together each of us is stronger than we are apart."

They hold each other's gaze for a long time, exchanging unspoken words of love, and then he says, "Marry me, Ruth."

"Yes," she nods, a wide smile spreading across her face as his heart soars and a smile appears on his lips, mirroring hers. "Yes, Harry." Then she adds, "but only after I'm Ruth Evershed again. It wouldn't be right otherwise."

"No," he grins, "nor would it be legally binding."

"I forgot," she murmurs, lowering her lips toward his and stopping just millimetres away to add, "you like to have things on paper."

He chuckles and then feels her lips press against his, and he closes his eyes, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close, kissing her passionately.

When they come up for air several minutes later, she shifts her body further onto his, her hand running down his side and her mouth trailing kisses along his jaw and whispering in his ear, "Why hello there! I think someone's ready to play again."

He chuckles softly and then groans loudly as her mouth sucks on his ear lobe at the same time as her hand finds him under the covers, and as the passion between them builds, his last coherent thought is that this quasi nervous breakdown and compulsory leave is the best thing that's ever happened to him.

* * *

**Sadly, this is the end of this fic. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Please leave a final review if you have a moment.  
**

**P.S. There will be a M-rated sequel to this.**


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